


kings of infinite space

by caramelchameleon



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Absolutely terrible coping mechanisms, Angst, F/M, Multi, Nightmares, lightly implied polygang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelchameleon/pseuds/caramelchameleon
Summary: "O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams." - Hamlet II.ii.273A cross-section of what assassins, spies, one particularly unlucky cop, and thieves find to dream about.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	kings of infinite space

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for a writing prompt just to keep myself busy during some quiet hours, and got back "what the nightmares of the gang are like." It's pure melodrama of course but I liked what came out well enough to share it.  
> I confess, I'm still working my way through this enormous body of canon and I don't know the full context for the thing I see around where it's claimed that Lupin doesn't dream. On account of that sounds like some nonsense, I have elected to (partly) ignore it.

In his nightmares Zantetsuken is sluggish, unresponsive, heavy; like dragging a paddle through water, rather than lightning striking. Or it is blackened and dull, or it refuses to draw no matter how his hands clutch at it, or it is simply missing - leaving him to dream a frustrating, anguished search for it, while Lupin and Jigen and Fujiko look on in blank unconcern and offer no help.

He dreams of his former trainers and mentors, or twelve generations of his ancestors, or Zantetsuken itself, judging him. Rejecting him. He wakes up in a cold sweat, believing the blade has turned in his hand and feeling for one stabbing moment more the sensation of Zantetsuken tearing through his gut as easily as it moves through air - as easily as it shreds clothing, or slits throats. He sits up. He checks that the sword is by his side, sheathed and clean. He lays it across his lap and meditates until the first light of morning finds its way through the heavy curtains of their hideout.

⁂

In his nightmares are the people he can't protect. Most are mercifully featureless and vague; some are patched together from his memories, and those hurt. He always has his gun - hardly ever remembers even drawing it, it's just in his hand when he goes to shoot. But the bullets never do much to slow down whatever's chasing him and his charge; or worse, he ends up shooting whoever he was trying to protect.

He dreams about pressing the barrel of the Magnum under Lupin's chin. That sparkling, charismatic, unreal monkey grin doesn't falter. He dreams the vivid sensation of the Walther pressed against his temple; or, recently, his chest, square against the heart. He wakes up tangled in blankets with a sour taste in his mouth, and refuses to dwell on whatever memories the night has dredged up. If the old, bad recollections don't go away on their own, well, he'll pour himself a quick shot of whatever looks nice from the liquor stash, and that ought to be enough to drown them.

⁂

In her nightmares she is the role she's playing, and there's no-one underneath. She's a secretary, a housewife, a model, or some other variant on the tune of a rich asshole's latest dalliance, and there's no mask to pull away. There are no wigs, no contacts, no carefully applied makeup over her scars because the scars are no longer there. She's tidy and vapid and boring. She has nowhere to run.

She wakes up with the urge to flee thrumming through her bones, but Lupin is clinging to her, snoring uproariously and snuggling shamelessly against her chest in his sleep. If it was just another mob boss, another CEO, another seduction for another job, she might still have tried to pull away without waking him. She trusts that Lupin would let her leave, if she needed to, and would welcome her back just as easily when she returns - so she settles back against the pillow, breathing slow, and resolves that if she still wants to run she'll do it in the morning, so she can make Lupin act out a ridiculous, over-the-top goodbye.

⁂

It's not a nightmare when he dreams about Lupin the Third's execution, a hundred different methods playing out behind his eyes. It's _not_. It's **not**. It's not a nightmare to imagine a gaunt, defeated face staring back at him through jail bars, that's _victory_. If he wakes up with his heart pounding, well, useless doctors are always telling him there's too much stress in his life. Perfectly normal. A good rooftop chase, something physical, that's what will wear him out enough to sleep without dreaming at all.

⁂

"Lupin, dear, wake up." Fujiko, shaking his shoulder, murmuring in low, urgent tones.

He makes various disoriented noises, coming awake as quickly as he can. "Whazzit, Fujicakes?" he mumbles, in whatever language comes to mind first or possibly a mix of them. "Somebody find us?"

"What? We're fine, what about you?" There's honest confusion in Fujiko's voice.

"You were yelling," Jigen says, somewhere behind him. "Heard you from the next room." He turns to look: his gunman is in full sleepytime bear mode, nightgown around his bony knees and the end of that goofy cap dangling over his face. He's taking tentative, shuffling steps closer. Goemon is a silent silhouette hovering in the doorway.

"I wasn't... You mean I was talking in my sleep?" He laughs it off, easily, as the fog clears from his mind and gears start turning. "Can't be. I don't dream. Are you sure it wasn't Fujiko?"

"I'm a very quiet sleeper, unlike some people -" a piece of pointed waspishness, either from tiredness or pure reflex, which just makes Jigen snort. "And I wouldn't be trying to wake you up to stop the noise, if I were the one making it! You were _screaming_. It was -"

"I don't want to know!" It comes out too raw, too sincere, and he nearly claps a hand over his mouth, mortified. They're all staring - he has to just plow through - "If I was dreaming I can't remember it and I don't want to know what it was. That's all. I'm sorry I woke everyone. Go away. Get some rest."

Hesitation, one frozen moment.

Nobody leaves.

Goemon is the one who breaks it - marches closer, grabs Jigen by the arm along the way and drags him along. "Lupin-dono, as your bodyguards -" they're well past the point of outdated honorifics and formal titles, but in that moment he supposes it helps them both - "there's a safety concern we must address."

Jigen catches on in time to plonk himself onto the bed alongside Goemon, jockeying briefly for space on that half of a suddenly rather crowded bed. "Mm-hm. Just a precaution, but it's for your protection."

"I'm outvoted on this one, aren't I," he grumbles, with no heat to it - cuddling up to Goemon's broad chest, since why waste an opportunity, after all?

"You sure are," Fujiko confirms, nuzzled up with him in turn. Jigen grunts drowsy assent from the other side, calloused, knobbly hand groping until it can rest on his.

Surrounded by his gang, his crew, his family... he falls asleep and doesn't dream.


End file.
